Pretty Much Dead Already, page 19
“Battering ram,” Rhett says, reading my mind. “They’re testing the wall.”
I shiver, but not from the cold. I want to ask what happens if the wall breaks, but I already know.
Rhett senses my panic. He touches my elbow, a gentle pressure. “If it goes south, we run for the tunnels,” he says. “You stick with me, understand?”
I nod. I understand.
We stand like that, frozen, as the tension in the room ratchets up another notch. At some point, Cass reappears, face flushed and hair even wilder than before. He gestures at me, and I realize he wants to talk—really talk, not just trade jokes.
I slip away from Rhett, weaving through the crowd until I’m next to Cass. He’s got his hands jammed in his pockets, posture tense.
He leans in, voice low. “They’re turning, Birdie,” he says. “It’s not just Viktor’s goons. The whole fort’s looking for a scapegoat.”
I swallow, the truth of it landing like a brick.
He bumps my shoulder, not quite a hug. “You ever want to run, just say the word.”
I want to say it. I really do.
But then I catch sight of Jace, at the edge of the room, hands clasped behind his back. He’s talking to a group of Beta men—security, by their jackets. They’re listening, but their faces are closed. Jace glances at me, and for a split second, I see the plea in his eyes: don’t give up.
Cass follows my gaze. “You think the shrink has a plan?”
I shake my head. “He’s just trying to keep the peace.”
Cass grins, crooked. “Better men than him have tried.”
I frown but say nothing, he’s not wrong but it still feels like a slight to Jace. I see Michael next. He’s got a towel pressed to a woman’s arm, the blood already soaking through. His eyes flick up and lock on me, and I see the second he takes in my bruised face, the rips in my jacket, the haunted way I hover at the threshold. He holds my gaze a beat too long, and then he finishes tying off the wound and motions me over.
I hesitate. Cass senses it, slides closer, drops his chin so his lips almost brush my ear. “You want out?” He asks, voice soft.
“No,” I say, because leaving is not an option. Not anymore.
Rhett clears the way, the crowd shifting uneasily as he leads us to Michael. There’s a ripple in the atmosphere—a static charge, like the moment before lightning.
Michael wipes his hands, tosses the rag into the growing pile of red-stained towels at his feet. “You made it,” he says, a whisper only for me.
“Barely,” I reply.
He touches my elbow, checking for injuries. “Good,” he says, but his eyes are on my face, searching for something he’s afraid to see.
Jace materializes beside us, as if conjured by the tension. He looks withdrawn, dark circles under his eyes, but he manages a wan smile. “They’re saying the barricade will hold another hour,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it.
Cass barks a laugh, and the crowd closest to us flinches. “What do you think, Doc?” He asks, looking at Michael but meaning the whole disaster.
Michael shakes his head. “Depends how motivated Viktor is,” he says. “And how much he wants what’s inside.”
The word “what” lands between us, and I feel every set of eyes in the hall slide my way.
The moment doesn’t break so much as it fractures. Someone yells, a voice deeper than the rest, thick with the accent of old laborers and old rage: “There she is! The fucking reason we’re all dying!”
The crowd parts, reluctantly, and a giant of a man stands. He’s a Beta, shoulders as wide as the door, fists like hammers. There’s blood smeared across his forehead, but it’s not his—he’s too angry to be wounded. I recognize him from work detail. His name is Garrett, and I’ve watched him split pallets with a single swing. Right now, he’s looking at me like he’d like to do the same.
“We’re all gonna die because of her!” Garrett roars. His finger jabs at me, the motion slicing the air.
The room stills. I’ve heard silence before, but this is different. Every person in the mess holds their breath, waiting to see who will move first.
Rhett’s voice is calm, but it cuts through like a bullet. “Stand down, Garrett.”
Garrett laughs, ugly and raw. “Easy for you to say. You get to guard the prize.” His eyes rake me, then Cass, then Michael, and finally Jace. “All these men, all this trouble. For one little Omega? That’s some fucked up math.”
The accusation is a match to kerosene. The crowd murmurs, picking sides. I see it in their faces: the ones who’d fight for me, and the ones who’d sell me out in a heartbeat.
“Viktor wants the Omega,” Garrett shouts, voice growing. “That’s it. We hand her over, they leave us alone!”
Cass steps forward, grin gone, eyes flat. “That’s not how it works,” he says. “You feed them one, they come back for seconds.”
The crowd ripples, some nodding, some shaking their heads. The split is immediate, almost elegant.
Garrett sneers. “You think you know Viktor?” His voice is derision made solid. “I grew up with guys like him. You give them what they want, and they’re done.”
Michael intervenes, cold and quiet. “He’s never honored a deal,” he says. “Three other settlements tried. None of them survived.”
The room absorbs this. For a second, hope flickers—maybe enough to sway the balance.
But Garrett is already gathering steam. “You want to risk all our lives for her? For one mouthy, troublemaking Omega?” He bares his teeth at me, the sound almost a growl.
A woman’s voice, brittle as glass, pipes up from the back. “She never even belonged here,” she says. “Should’ve stayed in her pretty little tower like the other rich bastards.”
The murmurs grow. I feel the pressure, the heat of it against my skin.
Jace moves through the crowd, working quietly, his hands gentle on arms and shoulders. He finds people he’s counseled, people who still trust him, and I hear his voice—soft, but relentless. “Remember who you are. Remember what we survived to get here.” He repeats it, a litany against the tide.
Rhett positions himself squarely in front of me, body tense, hand never straying far from his sidearm. Cass takes up the flank, rolling his neck, eyes scanning for weak spots in the mob. Michael stands behind, hands open but ready.
Garrett’s momentum builds, a physical force in the room. “She’s not worth it,” he yells. “Let’s just—”
A plate smashes against the wall, spraying cold oatmeal and shards of ceramic. Someone else screams, “Hand her over!” The chant is ugly, real, and for a second, I see how this ends.
The next moment, someone throws a food tray at me. It’s a perfect Frisbee, spinning through the air. Rhett knocks it away, but it would’ve hit me square in the face.
Cass bares his teeth. “Try that again, you fuck,” he snarls at the thrower, “And you’ll be eating through a tube.”
The crowd recoils. No one wants to be the first to escalate, not yet.
Garrett sees his opening. He steps forward, slow and deliberate, the mob at his back.
Rhett doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “One more step, Garrett, and you lose a kneecap,” he says, voice so flat it’s almost dead.
Garrett pauses, calculating. The crowd behind him waits, hungry for a signal.
Jace edges closer, positioning himself between factions. He appeals to one, then another. I see his hands trembling, but his voice never wavers. “This isn’t who you are,” he says. “You’re better than this.”
A mother, the one from earlier with the toddler, stands up. Her jaw is set, eyes fierce. “He’s right,” she says. “What would Viktor do to her? Or to any of us next?”
A few others nod, uncertain but willing.
Michael uses the lull, voice slicing through. “If you give her up, you’re signing your own death warrant,” he says. “They’ll breach the wall anyway. And they’ll know we’re weak.”
Cass looks at me, eyes burning. “Say the word, and we’ll go,” he says, soft so only I can hear. “But it’ll be a shitshow.”
I shake my head, dizzy with the weight of it all. “No more running,” I say. “Not for me.”
The crowd wavers, indecision fracturing the momentum. Garrett’s face twists, and he turns to rally his side, but it’s too late. The spell is broken.
The alarm blares, louder now. From outside, a new sound: the screech of metal, the crash of bodies hitting the barricade. Someone screams, “They’re through the inner gate!”
Panic surges, a living wave. The mob dissolves as fast as it formed, people scrambling for exits, parents grabbing children, everyone trying to be anywhere but here.
Garrett is left alone, rage curdling into something smaller. He glares at me, then at Rhett, then spits on the floor.
“Cowards,” he says, but no one listens. The moment is gone.
In the chaos, Cass pulls me close, his arms a cage. “You did good,” he says, breath warm on my ear. “Better than I would’ve.”
Michael steadies me from behind, his hand firm on my shoulder. “You okay?” He asks, voice gentler than before.
I nod, but I’m not sure it’s true.
Rhett’s eyes never leave the door. “We need to move,” he says. “Now.”
Jace is already herding people toward the emergency stairwell. “This way!” He shouts, and a line forms instantly, desperate for his guidance.
We follow, moving as one—Rhett at point, Cass flanking, Michael and Jace weaving behind, keeping the rest of the crowd at bay.
As we move, the flickering lights cast everything in and out of existence. The air is thick with sweat and fear and the memory of almost being erased.
I hold onto Cass’s hand, refusing to let go.
We run, all of us, into whatever comes next.
Behind us, the mess hall is a wreck—benches overturned, rations trampled into the floor, the emergency lights painting the whole scene with a sickly blue. The alarms keep howling, and the sounds of the siege outside bleed through the walls: moaning, howling, the crunch of bone and steel.
But for now, at least, we are alive.
And for the first time, I wonder if it’s enough.
The stairs are a bottleneck—a tight choke of bodies, everyone pressing upward and inward, away from the hungry chorus swelling in the quad. The alarm still howls, now joined by the uneven percussion of gunfire and the too-familiar wet thuds of meat against metal. The stairwell walls are streaked with shoe prints, sweat, and the frantic scrawls of children’s crayon—names, promises, threats.
Rhett leads, clearing the way with the force of his presence. Cass prowls a half-pace behind, eyes wild and jaw set, while Michael and Jace shepherd stragglers, offering calm words or a hand where needed. I’m in the middle, swept by the current, my feet moving before my brain can catch up.
At the landing, the crowd spills into a utility corridor, the air a mash of breath and panic. There’s a brief, animal jostle for space, then people begin to cluster in packs—family, old friends, or simply those who share a language of fear. The ones who want me gone are easy to spot: eyes flicker and avoid, shoulders huddle tighter, the air around them sharp with the stink of sweat and old resentment.
But there are others, too. The mother with the stands at the edge, kid still perched on her hip. A battered Beta couple from the hydroponics crew. Three teenagers, arms linked and faces set in the rigid mask of hope.
The room is filled with the sound of people not wanting to be the first to speak. Every breath is a dare.
Jace moves through the groups, soothing, redirecting, whispering small truths to keep the peace. Michael leans against the cinderblock, eyes closed, maybe calculating casualties, or maybe just refusing to watch the social bloodbath that’s about to unfold. Cass crouches low, scanning for threats, fingers drumming restlessly on his knee.
Rhett plants himself in front of the steel fire door, hand never straying far from his sidearm. His gaze cuts the crowd, daring anyone to start something.
But it’s not enough. The anger builds, a low rumble under the hum of lights. Garrett’s voice finds me before I see him.
“You think you’re better than the rest of us?” He growls, loud enough for the whole hall to hear.
I want to disappear, but something in me cracks. Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s rage, maybe I just have nothing left to lose.
I step out from behind Rhett, out from the fortress of bodies. The sudden exposure is like ice water. Every pair of eyes swivels to me. I nearly fold, but Cass shoots me a half-smile, and Rhett’s hand hovers at my back—a promise without pressure.
I raise my chin. “Enough,” I say, and it comes out louder than I expect, echoing off the tile.
Silence.
Even the alarms feel farther away for a second.
I swallow, fighting to keep my voice steady. “You think I want this?” I gesture at the mob, the barricaded door, the bleeding edge of civilization behind us. “You think I’m not just as scared as you?”
A ripple runs through the crowd—anger, yes, but also surprise.
I keep going, even though my hands are shaking, even though my throat wants to close. “Viktor doesn’t want me. He wants you divided. He wants Fort Hope to eat itself, so when he comes in, there’s nothing left but scraps.”
Garrett sneers, but his voice is softer. “Then why are they here? Why are we all dying to keep you alive?”
I step closer, refusing to back down. “Because you let them decide who’s worth saving. And every time you do, you make it easier for monsters—inside and out—to win.”
I feel Cass’s approval, a slow, dangerous heat at my flank. Jace’s eyes meet mine, and I see gratitude there, a flash of pride. Rhett’s expression doesn’t change, but his stance relaxes by a degree.
A woman in the crowd speaks up. The mother—her voice is cracked but clear. “She’s right. The stories from the first camps—it was never about just one person.”
A few others nod. A Beta man raises his hand, the tremor visible even from where I stand. “She got my brother out of the greenhouse fire last week,” He says. “We owe her.”
The mood shifts. Not all at once, and not for everyone. There are still plenty of glares, plenty of muttered threats. But the spell of the mob is broken.
Michael straightens, voice calm and absolute. “We’re not giving anyone up,” he says. “Not today.”
Garrett spits on the floor, again, tossing a seething glare in my direction before stalking off muttering under his breath.
Some of his followers storm out, anger carrying them into the chaos above, maybe to bleed out their rage on the infected clawing at the gate and the walls. Others just slink to the back, their hatred a dull, private thing now.
The rest? They look at me differently. Not with love, or even trust—but with a reluctant acknowledgment that I exist, that I matter. That I’m not going to let myself be erased.
Jace pushes through the thinning crowd and hugs me, quick and fierce. “You did it,” he whispers, then pulls away, face slick with nervous sweat.
Cass sidles up, arms crossed, grinning. “Told you,” he murmurs. “Mob logic. All bark.”
“Not all,” I say, glancing at the door where Garrett’s crew vanished.
Cass shrugs, unconcerned. “Let them work it out. Rather them than us.”
Rhett steps in close, so quiet only I can hear. “I’d follow you anywhere,” he says, simple and true.
It guts me, the honesty of it.
Michael checks my wounds, then Cass’s, then Jace’s, moving down the line with a methodical tenderness. “Get some water,” he says, “And rest. When the power flickers again, we’ll need you sharp.”
I nod, but my legs are pudding. I find a patch of clear wall and sink to the floor, letting the cold seep into my bones.
The alarms continue, steady and uncaring. The walls still tremble with the weight of the siege. But in this pocket of relative quiet, I feel something I haven’t felt in weeks.
Not peace, exactly. But a kind of belonging.
I close my eyes, resting my forehead on my knees. The sounds of the fort fade into the background: the far-off moan, the distant crash, the sob of a child somewhere down the corridor.
Cass sits next to me, thigh pressed to mine. He doesn’t say anything, just passes me a water bottle and leans his head back against the concrete, like we’re sharing a smoke break instead of a foxhole.
Jace sits cross-legged at my other side, humming under his breath—a song I don’t know, but that makes the air feel softer.
Rhett stands guard at the door, always watchful. But every few seconds, his eyes flick to me, and there’s a ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
Michael paces, checking supplies, but when he passes he gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Proud of you,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
I hold the water bottle in both hands, stare at the label, let the trembling slowly subside.
The room is a mess—blood and glass and hope in equal measure—but for the first time, I don’t feel like a burden. I feel like a person.
The siege goes on. The monsters still batter the walls. But for now, we hold.
And when the time comes, I know which side I’ll be fighting for.
Chapter Eighteen: Strength in Numbers
Lira
The worst part of waiting for death is the smell. The stench of the cellar was already enough to strip paint—old mildew, half-rotted potato sacks, the thick undernote of rust and spilled bleach—but layered now with the high, hot stink of fear, it hits like a slap every time you try to breathe. The crowd of survivors press in tight, bodies overlapping in a mess of makeshift blankets and old uniforms. Someone has passed out against my hip, breathing in rapid, rabbit spasms. I don't know if she is wounded or just in shock. At this point, the difference is academic.
